Winter’s withering confession.

Can you hear

winter’s last ?
Its chest

ripped open

at the seams
pours-out
in the hair

in the fields

on the grass
strums of cold

sun
and they ring

out in the branches
and they hum

on the asphalt
with dying

rage
on the still

blank pages
of our dried days.
Can you smell

winter’s last wink?
A confession

in withering
ink

on a lost nineteen

something
postcard.
Can you hear

winter’s last ?
Its chest

ripped open

at the seams
And it bleeds

away in the shell

of a snail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_______________

winter_s-withering-confession1

Photo: Doreen Dee

 

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